


Dominating From The Dark

by Catchclaw



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark, Established Relationship, M/M, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock has what he thought he wanted--Kirk in his bed, in his heart--but something is missing.<br/>Four snapshots of their relationship--of Spock's attempts to figure out why this kind of having does not make him happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He reaches for you, his eyes wild, and you cannot deny him. His fingers wrap around your arms and he shoves his tongue into your mouth, moaning. You grab him and trace the line of his hips, slide your fingers under his shirt. His skin is cool, to you, but you know that his body is burning, that it is you he desires. He pulls away, impatient, and pulls off his tunic, tugs yours after. You kiss him, claim him, and shove him back, reaching for his waistband.

You used to horde every glance, every smile, every instance of his breath in your ear, you think, as you take him in your mouth, as he throws his head back and growls. The confidential moments conducted in public--the moments you chose to read as shouts, to which the rest of the room, or the bridge, or the world paid no attention. Silence. You had your life with him, then, in between the lines, in the pauses in a conversation, the beats between words, the long moments when nothing was said. In that space, in that silence, you had constructed an entire life with him, hadn't you?

So it should be better now, shouldn't it, now that you can be with him among the words, within hearing distance, now that you have made room for him in the life that you built for you both. Now that you can touch him, take him, can let him slide his hands down your thighs, pull your cock into his mouth. In the private times that matter, this is so; you do not have to choose carefully from a worn series of long-remembered moments--you can create new ones out of whole cloth, together. This, you know, should satisfy you, should appease you, more than the in-between world of hesitation and isolation in which you spun for months, if not a year.

But it has been difficult, giving up that control, that power that you had over him without him knowing; this power that let you rebuild him into the captain who was yours. You have found yourself missing him, haven't you?--that creature of the mind, who always said what you needed to hear, who reached for you at the right moment, whose mind and body were living clay in your hands. He, this imaginary one, can no longer exist, for the meaningful pauses through which he once moved are filled now, with a glance that is not open to your interpretation but is filled with the intention of a living man. The haint is lost to you, and would you give up the strong mouth beneath yours, or the nails on your back, or that look he gives only to you, just before he comes?

No, you tell yourself, reaching for the man again and burying yourself in his body. He is what you wanted, he is the one fulfills you, sates your desire. You know this. You tell yourself that this must be true. But there is part of you that cannot help but look for the haint as you fill him, as his cries echo in your ears, as your body collapses on his. You want and you have, and still you look for something more.

Now, your captain would stretch out beside you, press his head against your chest, give himself over to sleep. The man, however, kisses you--lingeringly, pleasingly--and pulls away, reaching for his shirt. He says something--in the right tone, with the right smile--and leaves you, curled alone beneath the sheet, wide awake and cold.

Your captain touches your face and murmurs into your ear, his fingers sliding slowly down your cheek. You feel love for your captain. The man is...the man has made this feeling complicated, bounded, as it is, by rules that give him comfort but that you find illogical and bewildering.

Those silences that once gave you such pleasure, those glances once so freely given, are now laced with something other, some sense of uneasiness, of disquiet, of fear. You know that you have not changed--not as you once might have hoped--so it is he who is afraid. When he looks at you, his face is furtive; he avoids touching you in front of anyone else--no hand on your shoulder, no tug on your sleeve, no grip of your arm when you stumble. You have the man, in private, when you are alone with him, but that is all: your having, his taking, your giving, his breaking have to be kept silent, shielded from Command and crew and the man's own confusion.

You turn, wrapping your arms around the haint. You hold your captain tightly, reveling in the affection he gives you, something the man is not willing to give. (Not yet, you tell yourself; the time will come when he is yours always, when he does not shy from what you are sure his heart feels).

Until then, you will wait, alone, and content yourself with the pleasures of the man's body, those he is so eager to give. Soon, you whisper to the haint who sleeps in your arms, soon I will not need you any longer, and it is he I will hold fast until morning. Soon. Soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later, fed by the plak tow, Spock's fury about their relationship spills over into the koon-ut-kal-if-fee.

Now you are angry; alive with a fury that you no longer wish to escape. Now you welcome it: you belong to the anger now--he can no longer call you his (but he has not, has he? And that is why you will kill him). You whip the lirpa around your head; the metal humming in your hands, and wield it at his head with a crack. He jumps back stunned, unsteady, unaware--somewhere in your mind, you register his eyes and what you see there: fear.

Your blood leaps up at the sight of his face and sears you from the inside. You hate him. He is taking from you that which should be yours; again he takes, always he devours and now you will not let him, he cannot have (you, not anymore).

As you advance, now it is he who retreats, the lirpa hanging awkwardly in his hands. In yours, it lives and writhes and cuts, sinking its long sharp tooth into his flesh. You see red: his blood, pounding in your ears, behind your eyes (his flesh, open to you again but out of reach) his shock as he registers the pain makes your heart sing a low, terrible note that contains all the wrongs that he has done to you, all of the agony he has twisted willingly into your soul.

You are not yourself, and yet you are: some dark, fearsome part of your soul has taken over; yes, fed by the fires of your body, and you embrace it, wield it like a weapon in your hands.

He is learning fast now that his life is in danger: _now that the creature he values more than anything is at risk_ , you snarl through the fever, not caring who can hear you, not knowing if anyone can. He is trying to hurt you (not to kill you, some quiet part of you pleads, lost in the maelstrom of your mind) and here is the opportunity: now you can strike him down, cut him out of your life as cleanly, as painfully as you can. _Now is the time_! your fever tells you, and you believe it.

You swing again, but the blade is caught, the bells sound: they take the lirpa away and twine an ahn-woon into your hands.

He is confused by this weapon--you can see it in his face (a look you've seen too often as he slips away at night, as he brushes past you without a word--"For the crew's sake," he tells you, his mouth curled, his hands on your chest, his breath sinking into your skin).

For yours! the ahn-woon shrieks for you, and you bring him down hard, his head dragging in the sand. He tries to get away from you—again, as always—but this time you catch him and cover his body with yours.

Now you pour all of your hate and anger and love and grief into your fingers as they wrap around his throat. He is terrified: the power it gives you, the joy, makes your heart roar in your chest (just as he does, when his mouth takes yours). You burn into his eyes as he dies and you tell him: _My life will be better without you. I will be better. I will be_. I—

The fear, the confusion, the pain snap off in his face and his body hangs limp from your fists. The fever fans your fury and you gloat over him, for a moment. Now he knows what it is like to have too much taken away, not enough given in return. Now he is empty and alone. Now, you are...

Spock.

Suddenly, there is a shriek in your mind; a terrible wounded sound that makes you dizzy, that makes you sick: it pushes the fury away, drains your anger like a tap, and you sway, kneeling over him. You see the body in your hands for the first time (limp and exhausted, surely he is only sleeping—) but you have never seen him sleep, not in your arms, not like this.

You drop him softly to the ground, let yourself be pushed away, see the woman from the corner of your eye and you realize that you cannot weep. Not here. Not now. Now, what is left for you?

"I have killed my captain," you hear yourself say, and now there is nothing left to be done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Vulcan, Kirk is alive but their relationship appears to be dead--until Kirk invites Spock to talk things over on the observation deck.

He is coming to you tonight for the first time since he died—since he came back to life. Since you killed him. Since you were absolved. Since he escaped.

After.

That is where you are now, somewhere in the after; the space that stretches beyond the red sand, beyond a dead man in your hands, beyond a second chance at life.

When you found out, when you saw him standing there in Sickbay—cocky, breathing, arrogantly alive despite your best efforts, you were happy for a moment, as you turned his shoulders in your hands. But then some part of you remembered the rage, the pain and the fear; you wanted to reach for his neck, to squeeze that smile from his face, to be free of him, again.

But that part of you succumbed, gave in to him too easily. You remember the weight of your heart, flooded with relief at the sight of him next to you in the corridor, in the lift, on the bridge.

Whatever sense of ease that you felt then has long since fled, replaced by an unsteady détente between you. You speak only when required; you do not touch, you do not stare—you are sterile to him, cut off, and he has been off balance, unsure of the rules of engagement.

At first you ached for his hate—wished for him to know that you killed him consciously, deliberately, with pleasure, and then to despise you for it. But you know him too well, even now, to believe this; he does not know what you did, how you felt then—if he did, he would not have asked to talk with you alone.

His invitation on the bridge this morning, to meet here tonight—he said something casually, loudly, as if it were natural, easy, for the two of you to be alone—he would not have made it if he hated you, would he? Whatever he felt for you before, that jumble of emotions that let him fuck you and then flee, kiss you then turn away—those feelings are still there, shut up inside of him somewhere.

You wish you did not know this. You wish that you could walk away from this place, these people; that you could leave him, forget him, and never look back. You lean your forehead against the viewport and look down, seeing the stars fall away from the ship. For a moment, you wait for the port to open, to feel the tug of space pulling you out and away and down into oblivion.

You turn back with a sigh, pressing your back against the window, keeping your eyes on the door. You've been avoiding this conversation—rather skillfully, in fact: playing on his uncertainty, relying on his unease to keep him away from you, trusting the universe to keep him occupied. And the universe has obliged: throwing alternate universes and diplomatic crises and a dozen warring worlds at him, keeping his eyes forward, his mind on a menace, his body far away from yours.

But now it is quiet, and he has let himself ( _forced himself_? you wonder) to think of you.

You sigh again, the sound echoing in your ears. _Why_ , you ask yourself, _did you not refuse him? Why do you still give him such power over you?_

You have had it both ways, now: you have had him—in your bed, in your heart, but not in public—and you have lost him, killed him, cut him from your life by force in front of an audience. _Which_ , you wonder, listening for his footsteps in the hall, _was the more pleasing state? In which could you have survived the longest? Been the most whole? The most happy?_ Now both ways of being are lost to you, and you can only contemplate the chasm that lies between you.

You have been waiting for some time now, haven't you, and you can no longer keep the tension of the moment at bay. You feel yourself growing anxious, preparing for battle: your fingers curling into fists, your lips curling over your teeth. You have played out the coming conversation in your mind too many times already: surely, any words he might say tonight (any that might escape your mouth) can only do harm, now. What is left to be said? More importantly: what is it that you want to hear? What do you want him to say?

The door sounds. Opens. Closes.

He stands across from you, waiting. If he is here, with you, the universe must be safe, again. For now, the only battle lies between you—but you are not willing to fire the first shot.

He doesn't speak, either: a sharpshooter suddenly gun shy. He hesitates, his mouth full of something he is not ready to say.

So you both sit, watching the worlds turn outside the window, the stars streaming by in the dark; the stars that are cold, alone, utterly alien to you, much like he is—but, no: this is not true. You know him, even now, with all of the silence that separates you. You know that you love him no matter how much you want to resist, to shove those feelings away from you, to let them sink into the silence and drown.

But—and this is what hurts you most, as you try too hard not to look at him, reach for him, speak to him—you would not kill him again, even if you had the chance. That desire has left you, buried it back in the red sands of your fathers. The hurt in which he covered you before, the pain and the loss he tunneled into your heart: you will take that, take all of it back, swallow it whole, just for the hope that one day, you will get a look inside his heart.

He turns to you, suddenly, his eyes catching yours unaware. And the look on his face—it makes your throat ache and your breath catch.

He opens his mouth to speak but says nothing. You do not move, you cannot, even if you wanted to—waiting.

His fingers curl around your wrist and your pulse leaps up to greet him.

“Spock,” he says hoarsely, his eyes twisting into yours. “Where are you?” He grips your hand, his fist closing around yours. “Spock?” he says again, his voice tinged with something that sounds like fear. You are still, stoic, and he is frustrated now, yanking your arm, pulling you towards him. He grabs you and his mouth speaks the only language that he understands against your throat, your neck, your lips. You let him kiss you, allow him to run his hands down your back, under your shirt: to grab your shoulders, to claim your mouth with his tongue, to settle his weight over you, to groan into your ear.

You will let him have you, won’t you, even here on the observation deck, where you yourselves might so easily be seen. You accept this. This is better. Better not to speak now, your hands say against his hips, your tongue between his teeth: better not to fill this heavy, hot silence with words. Better to open your body to him, now, and shove your worries aside: in this moment, words could only do harm. To you. To you both. Better to let his body echo in your ears and to close your eyes to the troubles that must lie ahead. Let him have what he wants and pretend that it is what you desire, too.

You recognize that you are drowning in him, again, but this time: _it is your choice not to stop it_ , you think, feeling his hands close around your cock, his moans vibrating through your skin, your own cries falling fast into the silence that digs deeper between you. Your choice. _Now it is you who will be responsible for the consequences_ , you tell yourself in the last moment of coherence before he pulls you into his mouth. _You. Your price to pay_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the place where his life must end, Spock reflects on what has been lost. And what might still be gained.

You are dying. You know this.

No.

You are dead. Your mind knows this. It is simply waiting for your body to catch up.

You lean your head back and smile. An odd reaction, perhaps. For a moment, it seems so. And then you remember that though you are dead, they are not. He is not.

So.

You are warm, the kind of heat that reminds you of home, of dust and sky and all those things you will never see again. There is a light in your eyes that feels like the sun, the one you remember burning into your flesh in the desert, searing your skin and leaving it raw and aching, blistered and broken. Now your hands crackle, your fingers shot with flames, your flesh tearing with the memory.

Or does it?

Your head hits something hard, something that doesn't yield, and for once it is not your own will, your own stubborn sense of what must be that blocks you. It is hard and hot and you open your eyes, confused, not certain where you are, for a moment, and you see him there, sitting, leaning against the hard thing that lies between you. The barrier is solid, but it is also clear; you can both see what you are doing, now. You are certain of this.

His face is twisted, or perhaps it is your eyes, for they suddenly sting and weep and your mind tugs at your sleeve, remembering, reminding: you are dead.

Yes.

Still.

He is hollow and empty and full all at once as he looks into your eyes, or tries to, the barrier bending his glance so that it just misses yours. As always. As it has been. As it will not be, ever again.

Fascinating.

All that has been between you, unsaid, tangled in your head and then lost in his sense of pride and shame and fear. It has solid form at last, and that is comforting, now.

But he is in pain. You can see it in his distorted face, and you realize: yes. He knows that you are dead, too.

The heat, the light, the echo that is calling to your mind, insistent and low and ready--your body is defying all of these things, you realize absently, pressing your palm to the barrier, feeling the pain of the undone against your flesh. Of the incomplete. His hand is there, then, a refraction of who he is, a sign of who he will be without you. Your mouth moves, words tumble from your tongue, but your mind is winning. It is pulling away and leaving your body behind.

It is odd. After all this time. After all of your attempts to escape him. All of your failures, his unrelenting refusals. After your shattered sense of hope, his resistance to all that you are, all that you might have been, together. After all of that, there is part of you that still wants to stay, to be with him, no matter what the consequences, for those you took upon yourself, long long ago, in the shade of another sun, in the aftermath of another fight to the death.

This time, you have lost.

But this time, you see. So has he.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell.


End file.
